


waken us from sleeping

by smithens



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Gay Male Character, M/M, Sexual Content, Social Class, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24376438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Here, perhaps more than ever before, rules were rules, and class did matter.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Matthew Crawley
Comments: 63
Kudos: 144





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the thomas/matthew section of [and those who sow trouble harvest it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24084625) got out of hand, and so, coincidentially, did the thomas & matthew section of [but level, in time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22136032), which i feel like tells you all a lot of information about both of those fics and what directions they are headed
> 
> anyway i tossed them in a blender with the in-progress thomas/matthew fic i already had going and now here we are! chose not to use archive warnings for the time being because we might get to character death & graphic violence. we'll see what actually happens. i'm just along for the ride on this one it's writing itself. looking at a handful of chapters of like, 1kish? like i said we'll see!
> 
> expect like, months before this updates again i'm writing it in patches but if i don't put it out i might stop working on it. luckily they're all supposed to be sort of Complete as chapters. so.

_November, 1914_

"...and you?"

He wondered whether he might tell the truth.

"Well enough, thank you, sir."

It was difficult to tell, either way…

"There's no need for any of that, not here."

Thomas tilted his head to one side; though almost indistinct, he had a look on his face that made Matthew feel quite the fool—and in only an instant he knew why.

"Or perhaps there is," he said, apologetic.

"I think that'd be best, _Lieutenant_ Crawley," said Thomas, lofty, almost. "Wouldn't want anybody to get the wrong idea…"

The words did not strike as deferential, but still he lowered his eyes, with an air that seemed almost demure. _There is something about you,_ Matthew thought, surveying him, _and I do not know what to make of it._ He wondered whether he had noticed it before. Perhaps it was the circumstances, their surroundings, the uniform, though this was not, he vaguely recalled, his first time seeing the man out of a servants' livery: they had seen one another once or twice in the village, and despite the man's talent for blending in to his surroundings (and of course it was that skill with which he made his living) he'd never been _invisible._

To his recollection.

How many more times might they have crossed paths, without his knowing?

"Quite right," Matthew said, and for good measure, _I do understand these things,_ "Private."

It may not have been Downton—no, it was the furthest thing from Downton, this, but here, perhaps more than ever before, rules were rules, and class did matter.

He'd been a fool ever to have dared think otherwise, and he'd never make the same mistake again, if he could help it. And it _had_ been a mistake, all of it. Time and distance had led him to that conclusion, and it was one in which he was firm, but...

But his dreams were only of Mary, all he could ever think of was Mary, his heart ached for _Mary_.

A step away Thomas was still looking at him, eyebrows raised, a twist in his mouth that Matthew suspected might have been a smile… it was odd, seeing him with—well, with facial expressions, and perhaps he felt the same in making them, because he only seemed to go halfway before stopping. _Half_ a smile, _almost_ a frown, _nearly_ surprised.

Though his eyes had gone wide upon their meeting. Only for a second, but he'd seen it.

Here and now he wanted to tell him to be comfortable, but of course he couldn't. _And why should he be comfortable, in my presence?_

Why did he want him to be?

"Yes?" he said, chastising himself for his distraction.

"You might look again, sir."

Matthew did.

"God, I'm sorry," he said after a moment, "you'd think I'd be used to checking by now–"

But he stopped, wondering not for the first time in the last five minutes whether he was sharing too much with a man who not six months ago had been serving him canapés.

 _Who_ are _you_ , he asked himself, _would you have cared at all about that, even two years ago?_

He would have, of course, but in a different sort of way.

It struck him that he didn't have any idea how old Thomas was, or where he had come from (well, of that he had a vague sense, and he wondered whether it might be inappropriate to ask for more details on the matter), what he liked to do with his free time—did servants have very much free time? he'd always had the impression Mother was more lenient a housekeeper than others of their class, let alone those above them, and he realised he hadn't the faintest idea how it had worked at Downton Abbey—or what his interests were, aside from Cousin Robert's warning that…

Well. It was odd, yes, but Matthew was a man of the world. And had he not been, Oxford had certainly provided him with an education in these matters; before that, the traditions of public school. Some boys never grew out of it, and no matter the differences in place and opportunity, he supposed the same would be true of men in the working class.

The thing was, Thomas was unlike all the rest, so far as he could remember. Athletic, efficient. Masculine.

Aside from his chosen occupation, but the advantages on that score ought to have been clear, once the matter was given any thought. Curious. He wondered if Molesley...

"Give it time, sir…"

Far from being offended, as Matthew would have predicted and as, of course, was his right, Thomas seemed only to be amused.

"...and, it's Barrow. Sir."

Lance corporal Thomas Barrow.

He hadn't even known the man's family name.

While Matthew was berating himself Thomas had turned, he stood now with his forearms upon the taffrail, feet on the edge as he leaned over, looking out over the waters—the waves were rough and crashing; under the dark gray sky the effect altogether was rather gloomy.

Looking at him he thought, _you match,_ for some reason. _Match_ wasn't entirely the right word; it was more that his features seemed… the sea complemented him, Matthew supposed. His eyes were more blue, his skin more porcelain. In the monotony of their environment it was all very captivating, in the way a painting might be. A Fuseli imposed upon a Turner.

And what a Turner it was.

"You been before?" Thomas said suddenly, still not looking at him. If Matthew was captivated by Thomas, Thomas was captivated by the view. "To France, I mean."

"As a boy," Matthew answered. Something to talk about that wasn't _small;_ that would be helpful. "Brittany, and Paris… the Côte d’Azur, when I was very young."

And sickly.

"Was it nice?"

"Yes," he said, "yes, very."

"Sunny?"

"Yes, in the south."

"Always wanted to go," Thomas said, more quiet than he had been. "But I don't suppose I'll see the good parts now I am…"

Of his own platoon, none had ever before set foot on foreign soil.

What a way to do it.

"Likely not."

On a whim he decided to join him, bracing himself upon the railing and leaning over.

In the distance the horizon seemed to blend in with the water. A storm was brewing, he thought, but there was no rain, yet; the air was fresh, the mist cold…

Easy to breathe. Easy to feel alive.

They could be thankful of that.

Matthew suspected that where they were going it would be a more difficult task.


	2. Chapter 2

"…I do, so far," he said. "I like it… like travelling."

And though it did answer the question, this wasn't quite _travel,_ in Matthew's book. "Is this your first time on a ship?" he asked; Thomas shook his head, but offered nothing more. His cheeks were pink. Matthew found himself wondering if it was caused by something more than the wind and cold. 

"I've always liked the journey more than the destination," he told him, and then, for reasons he couldn't explain, "Mother's the same way."

It had taken him some time to come to the conclusion—most of his life, perhaps, and then this year all at once he'd realised the destination was never sure at all. Often all one could do was enjoy the process of reaching it as best as one could… He'd had so little time with Mary, in the end, so little time spent as companions and as equals. Perhaps none at all. That was it, was it not? She hadn't loved him as a man; she had loved him as an opportunity.

That's if she'd loved him at all.

"My mum was opposite to yours," Thomas said. He unfolded his arms, let them hang over the railing as he peered down at the water. _You'll get salt in your eyes,_ Matthew thought, recalling one of many _Matthew, don't_ s his mother had given him over the years. _It will hurt, dear, you mustn't..._

It had nearly killed her, saying goodbye. It would kill her, if he –

"…but I'm the same as you, now." Thomas took a deep breath. Matthew's eye was drawn once again to his sleeve; he found himself wondering what he had done to be promoted so soon. (It was hardly any of his business, of course, but he'd recently developed a habit of wondering about _ranks,_ and it seemed odd, that a former footman who surely had not had a day's worth of medical training in his life was already rising within them.) "Wherever you're going's never 's good as you think it'll be."

That was it, there, and of course it was a sentiment that suited their own circumstances. 

"Do you know where you're headed?" Matthew asked lightly.

"Field hospital," Thomas said. "In Le Havre."

And he could pronounce it, too.

"Ah, you haven't very far to go once we've landed, then."

"Short walk, sounds like."

For so great the divide between them it was much too easy to hold a conversation. He'd never spoken to Thomas much before, of course, but he'd been led to believe that if he did it would not be so pleasant as this was turning out to be. He was a different man, when he wasn't a servant.

And Matthew… Matthew was a different man when he wasn't at Downton.

He was beginning to realise just how much. 

"What about you?"

"Not a field hospital, if I can help it," Matthew said, and Thomas bit his lip and turned back toward the water, eyes bright. "Ah, we're to spend two weeks at base, and from there onward to the front lines." He paused. "Although it's funny, I…"

He trailed off, at a loss. He hadn't yet determined why he was so willing to open his heart to a man who was by all rights a stranger. The familiarity, perhaps? A sense of home? Did he think of Downton as home?

Then, the accent made it rather clear where Thomas came from. It was a reminder of something; of that he was certain, yet he'd no idea where to begin with determining precisely what. How queer it was, that after but two years of living in Downton the bulk of his life spent elsewhere felt so far away. He'd spoken about it just the other day, with a younger officer who'd had his life similarly uprooted upon the death of a man he'd never known in his life… 

"What is?"

Yes, he'd been speaking, hadn't he.

"I'm the first man of – well, of the last few generations, who hasn't been a doctor, and – Father was in the medical corps in South Africa..."

He didn't know why he was telling him this, either. Thomas had hardly shown the greatest respect for the middle classes.

"So," Thomas said, in a manner almost coy, "you might be _my_ officer, in another life."

Matthew had been struck by his apparently sincere participation in the conversation, but now he sounded merely amused. 

"In another life," he echoed.

"Wouldn't mind being _your_ batman…"

Matthew raised his eyebrows, but Thomas was now looking into the water with new determination. He'd spoken by accident.

"Wouldn't you?"

"Rather you than some bloke from – " He huffed, turning back toward him. It had been the cold before, Matthew mused, for now he was certainly blushing. "I'm not about to be anybody's, if I can help it, but tell that to Major Addison..."

"Done with service, then?" Matthew asked.

"Yes, sir," Thomas said, eyes no longer at Matthew's own. "Erm, if I can be."

It was then that Matthew realised they'd largely dispensed with the formalities somewhere along the way. He didn't know how he _ought_ to feel about that, but it was something of a relief—Thomas could make the word _sir_ feel like a vulgar insult. As could the rest of the enlisted men, or they did _try,_ at least, though none were nearly so successful as Thomas had once been at Downton.

The difference, Matthew supposed, between him and the rest, was that he had years of practise.

"Er, have you a soldier-servant yourself, then, Lieutenant Crawley?"

That tone was too innocent not to be hostile.

"Not yet, and I won't, if I can get away with it," Matthew told him. "But I am entitled to one."

Like Thomas, he wanted to be done with that life—although it was difficult, being surrounded by men ten years his junior rather flagrantly beginning it. Regardless he knew how to dress himself, and it was not a skill he intended to forget. He'd see what happened, he supposed. That was all he could do, wasn't it? 

It hadn't taken him long to lose himself in Downton.

He hoped he'd not be so fickle in his resolve, this time.


	3. Chapter 3

Thomas took his cap off and stepped one rung higher, leaning over. Rain speckled his forehead.

 _You're behaving like a child,_ he chastised himself, _in front of Second Lieutenant Crawley, and a senior officer could walk by at any moment…_

"Do you remember that storm?"

"In June?"

Matthew nodded. "I won't be surprised if we have one now."

"Hm," Thomas said.

"In June, Cousin Mary and I," he started—absentminded, until he wasn't any longer and he was gritting his teeth, instead.

 _Cousin Mary._ Interesting. 

It probably _was_ going to start pouring any second; he'd end up soaked if he kept this up.

But he felt alive, standing on the rail; he felt above everything, like he could take on anything. Easy to forget he was going to war—he wasn't going to see the worst of it, and good thing, that, though in the last three months he'd figured out quick that he'd had some delusions of grandeur when he put his name down. 

He wasn't so deluded as he could've been, though.

Only took him about a week of really-being-in-the-army to get a promotion, after all, and if he had his way it wouldn't be much longer before the next (though after that… that was going to be more difficult). One chevron you could lose with the snap of somebody's fingers; two were yours as long as you didn't _really_ fuck it up.

"Sir?"

"Ah," said Matthew, as if he hadn't spoken at all, "are they with you?"

So much for what he'd been hoping for.

He resisted the urge to say _unfortunately_ and stepped down. He could make a fool of himself in front of a Crawley (well, this Crawley) but not anybody else.

Matthew excused himself right after they saluted, but he didn't go very far...

"...who was that?"

"Nobody," Thomas said, loudly enough that Matthew could have heard, if he'd wanted. If he were listening. Would he've been? "Just an officer."

And he _was_ nobody, as far as Thomas was concerned. He didn't work for him any longer and they'd never really talked, before. Why should they have? All they had in common was the family that Matthew had come into and that Thomas had worked for, and even that wasn't genuinely something held in common. Given the part where Thomas was a member of staff _._

But he'd worked for plenty of people who had something else the same as him. Even if just for a night or two.

Winfrey said, "not one of ours, is he?" 

"Not in the medical corps, if that's what you mean."

"Don't be so sour, Corporal, it doesn't suit you," said Carter. 

People always thought he was being awful when he wasn't, even here. He'd thought that was over when he made it out of Downton. Yes, he could be mean if he liked, and it made everything easier to be, but he didn't _always_ like. If everybody was going to think of him that way no matter what he did he may as well put some effort into it…

The three of them stopped for a smoke not too many yards off from where he'd been with Matthew, but when he looked over he was nowhere to be found. Gone already. Really it was surprising that he had wanted to look at him, let alone talk. Let alone talk for as long as they did.

He wasn't about to get his hopes up, and he didn't care, of course, what happened one way or the other, but he could do with something. Just to prove he could.

He'd always wondered if there was something there. How many men of that class were still unmarried, at his age? And it'd be a riot, if the man expected to give Lord Grantham an heir and a spare was…

Well, everything to do with Lady Mary had cleared his head of _that_ idea, but the point still stood that it was worth wondering. And some people liked both. (Or pretended they did, at least. Thomas had never figured out quite which. He'd been told it was possible, but if it was he'd never had any luck feeling it, himself. Not that he cared. He hadn't since he was still young enough to mind what people said about him, which he didn't anymore.)

Besides, Lady Mary wasn't here now, was she?

They didn't talk. Nothing to say, and the smoke break ended soon after it'd started besides—Matthew had been right about the rain. Matthew had been right about several things, though he wasn't likely to admit that any time soon.

Thomas went in on his own. No need to make friends, even if he was _technically_ second-in-command of them. On their level if no others. As a matter of fact that was all the more reason not to get too close. The higher you were on the ladder the more people liked to cosy up to you; he wouldn't let it happen if he could help it.

Nobody joined the army for the social offerings. Nobody Thomas knew, at least. 

He'd choose who he wanted to spend his time with eventually. He just hadn't yet. Hadn't had time. Truth be told he didn't expect he would anytime soon, and the way he saw it, the army was a lot like service. You may live and work and eat with people but the job still had to get done, and if you could do it without becoming bosom pals there was no reason not to.

Skivving off the dinner wasn't about to help him make his choice but the alternative, sitting through it, was unpalatable, so instead he tucked himself away in a corner, struck a match, and opened up a book.

A corner he really shouldn't have been in, but the officers weren't using it and nor was anybody else, so the way he saw it…

Rain was pounding against the windows and his hands were still frozen. Might as well take advantage of peace and quiet while he had the chance.

On his third cigarette (he'd need to mend that habit now he was going someplace he couldn't just pop down to the village any time he wanted) he heard a door open, footsteps. 

And here he'd just been thinking about how to keep his bloody promotion.

Thomas peeked round the wall, hoping to slip out, and found himself face to face again with who-would-have-thought.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself," Matthew said. He wore surprise plain on his face.

"Maybe," Thomas said, "only I won't be for much longer, if your lot is coming back in," and then he realised and opened his mouth again to make up for whatever rubbish had just come out of it, but Matthew answered only with a smile and a shake of the head.

Talking back to the family.

Talking back to the family and _getting away with it._

What would Mr Carson say.

 _Oh, but he's not in the family, Mr Carson,_ he thought, _not properly. Not when I finished out August and never saw him after the garden party..._

_And aren't you forgetting something, Mr Carson? I don't work for you anymore._

He put out his cigarette.

"Shall we go somewhere else, then?" asked Matthew. He had an airy way of speaking. Light. As if he really-couldn't-impose or was-very-flattered or wouldn't-dream-of. Thomas had heard him strained and overheard him angry, he'd waited at table in the last two years more than enough for that, but those voices were rare. Usually it was like this.

He liked it. 

Posh, but not pretentious… _There_ was a thought. Mr Matthew Crawley, not pretentious. He'd not have believed it a year ago. Maybe he'd left part of his brain in his wardrobe at the Abbey.

He hadn't left it at Aldershot; he knew that much.

Thomas shut _Hamlet._

"Together?" he asked, in turn, sly.

The likelihood of them seeing each other again after this was slim, after all.

Might as well try.

He'd learned his lesson, last year—nearly two years ago, now. He knew what he was doing. And he'd had chances to practice, during the season… what a world he'd left behind. Balls and dinners and garden parties and everything else that didn't matter at all, now he thought about it, but he'd cared so very much, living in it. Funny how not six months ago he was just dying to be a valet and now he'd already decided he was never going to be in service again.

No more bowing and scraping.

It was different, saying _sir_ in the army… and nobody was _my lord,_ neither. 

Still a joke, but less of one than everything to do with the peerage had turned out to be.

Matthew was looking at him with his mouth open, eyes a little wide. Thomas knew blushing when he saw it.

Must've guessed right.

"Only I can't say," Thomas added, "when we might be in the same place again, and if you'll let me be bold, sir, even officers can get homesick…"

Oh, yes, he'd guessed right.


	4. Chapter 4

"...well, surely you got the same warning our lot did," Thomas said, voice low, teasing, this man was so easy to flirt with and if he'd known it earlier he'd've… well, he'd not've done anything grand, but he might have made some different choices, "about keeping on guard," he added, and Matthew laughed, a proper chuckle; it made Thomas feel dizzy.

 _This is what this is and nothing more,_ he told himself, _don't be fucking stupid._

No need to fall over himself trying to gain approval from a middle-class…

Well.

He'd already gained _something._

"Against excess?" Matthew said lightly. "I don't see any women here." _Is that why you came here with me?_ But he didn't sound bitter, or disappointed, or anything like that… He was already breathless, and in the dark Thomas couldn't see him but he thought he might know what he looked like all the same: he always opened his mouth, when he smiled...

"No wine, neither," Thomas returned. 

"Unfortunately, some might say."

Funny that they were doing this sober… he wasn't used to that.

On the part of the other bloke. Everybody always liked to talk about taking advantage of people who'd had a bit to drink, but in Thomas's experience it was usually the other way round, with men like _Lieutenant Crawley._ But there weren't very many men like Matthew, were there? Everybody had figured that out eventually, at Downton. It may've taken them all a while, but they had. And now here he was out on the English Channel learning the lesson all over again.

It was going to be more fun this time.

He didn't really _care_ about Matthew _,_ of course, not truly, but Thomas wasn't known for shying from chances and he didn't intend to change that reputation now. Not that this sort of chance was one he wanted to be known for taking, in the army. 

No, this he'd keep secret.

Just between the two of them, and nobody else the wiser.

"Might you?" he asked coyly, now slipping his hands beneath the front of his tunic and finding the first button of his fly, then the second, the third… Two years after he'd been turned down for the job and he was _finally_ undressing Matthew Crawley.

"Not at the moment, no." He gasped when Thomas groped him through his drawers, then returned, "and you?"

For a half-second Thomas froze.

 _There's no way he knows,_ he thought, _he can't possibly know,_ but even if he did, he was here, wasn't he? What could he do about it?

Besides—Thomas was never going to work at Downton again.

"I like to be present," Thomas told him, "sir."

"You can't possibly mean to keep calling me sir."

"What shall I call you, then," _sir?_

He fell to his knees.

They were going to be bruised in the morning; he could tell already.

_In the morning._

Probably in just a few hours.

"Matthew," Matthew said, "call me Matthew," and when Thomas took him into his mouth he gasped _again_. So he wasn't a noisy one.

Probably for the best, under the circumstances, and while generally he preferred them more _responsive_ , the way Matthew's hand settled upon his head, the way his fingers took up his hair, the tentative press forward—all that was more than enough to make him feel like he had something over him. Because he _did,_ because he could make him like this, all breathy and wanting. Too proper to fuck his face but just improper enough to press on his head and keep him there. Improper enough to let his knees buckle as Thomas sucked him off. He could make him fall apart, if he liked, tease him for ages and revel in his desperation. Thomas was on his knees, yes, but that didn't mean the power wasn't his.

_The Lady Mary Crawley could never make you feel like this..._

He realised he was about to start palming himself just in time; he held Matthew by the calf, instead, and he put more into it, hearing him breathe and feeling him shudder. No revelling now. Not in keeping him waiting, at least.

Through it all a sense of motion. They were on rough waters, after all. He'd never done this before in a place like this.

It didn't take long. He held Matthew's legs as he shuddered, lips tight, cheeks hollow, swallowed around him, drinking him in, knowing he was going to be all pliant and relaxed when this was done with, knowing he'd done it... he needed it, poor chap. Not much time to relax in the army, was there? Not even for his lot. 

Lieutenant Crawley had the odds stacked against him, didn't he. Who knew what sort of stress commissioned officers were under? He could never have said no.

Before he knew it Matthew had hoisted him up and he was standing again, in his arms and against his chest, weak and heavy headed and wanting. "Let me be a gentleman," Matthew whispered in his ear, and though Thomas breathed "'s nothing" against his neck he nonetheless reached down between them to undo his trousers; and aching though he was he laughed, _I am being undressed by the heir to the Earl of Grantham_ ; he heard Matthew laugh, too, so he _knew,_ and then in no time at all he'd taken his prick in hand and Thomas _shuddered_

They didn't have anything to make this easier, but Matthew seemed to have figured that out: his touches were just with his fingertips, light and slow caresses, careful, gently insistent, delicate like nothing he'd had not-since- _nine-teen-bloody-eleven,_ and _tentative,_ probably, holding back, considerate; he wondered how long it'd been since he'd held another man's cock, if he'd ever done it at all, if Thomas was his first. (He'd been much too easy for that to be true but it was fun to think about.) As he felt his knees buckle Matthew wrapped an arm around his back, supportive, and while it probably wasn't meant to be permission to cling to him that was what ended up happening; as he went faster Thomas squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth closed, burying his face in Matthew's neck (his skin was warm and soft and clean and from all he'd heard about what was going on in France it wasn't going to be for much longer) and whimpering as he touched him, touched him _with care_ maybe like he touched himself God what a thought, gripping his shoulders (khaki rough under his palms but not so much as own would've been for him; the officers' kit was nicer that was for certain) and pressing his hips forward he _needed_

"I," Thomas breathed into his shoulder, "I'm," gasping.

He bit Matthew's collar as he came.


	5. Interlude

"I'd say I hope to see you again soon," Matthew said, tilting his head to look at him. All he could see in the dark was a vague outline; the light filtering in beneath the door was dim and gray.

They'd not yet left the storage closet, and were standing side by side, Matthew with all his weight upon the wall behind him—head, back and shoulders—and Thomas, it seemed, leaning sideways. 

Different though he'd been before, he seemed now to be an entirely new person, after…

After whatever it was they'd just done.

Matthew didn't know how to feel about his choices.

"I'd say that's daft," Thomas said, frankly. "Can't have a deathwish on your first day, can you, Lieutenant?"

To a point.

But all the same, in the darkness Thomas reached out and found his cheek, stroked his thumb upon Matthew's lips; when he spoke his voice was softer and more human than he had ever before heard it. "Thank you, though," he murmured. "Didn't think you were the sort."

"I can't blame you," Matthew told him, "nor did I."

That made him laugh.

Good God, two years with this man waiting upon him hand and foot and he'd never heard him _laugh_ until today...

He wondered if perhaps this wasn't all a dream.

"Not your first man, though, am I," Thomas said, still quiet. What sort of answer he was hoping for Matthew couldn't determine.

He shook his head before recalling that _they were in the dark_ , and then, "no," he said quietly, "no, you're not." 

"Well, if you forget again, what it's like…"

_You'll be in a field hospital in Le Havre, and I'll be on the front lines in God only knows where._


	6. Chapter 6

_June, 1915_

"I thought you were posted in a field hospital," Matthew said. "In Le Havre." _Safe_ , he didn't say.

"I was," said Thomas. Bitter, and perhaps within his rights to be. "For about a month."

Well within his rights to be, although Matthew could hardly be sympathetic, after what he'd now been through.

Then, they must have been through much the same.

Neither of them seemed very willing to discuss it, a fact for which Matthew was grateful at the same time as he was disappointed.

"And now…?"

" _Now_ I'm in Paris, aren't I," and as he trailed off he looked around, wary. Beneath his eyes the skin was a pale, mottled purple, but his face and hands showed evidence of the sun.

Matthew wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to the cropped hair—not that he should ever have a chance to. They were quite unlikely to see one another again. Chance could only lead one man to another so many times. 

"And when you're not?"

"When I'm not, I tie up tourniquets and carry bodies around." He bit at his lip, swished around his glass. (The alcohol here seemed rather strong, but then perhaps he'd only grown accustomed to taking it watered down.) "Live ones," Thomas added, and then he took another drink, eyes closed, lashes dark and contrasting even as his skin had the most colour Matthew had ever seen in it… not that he'd ever paid much close attention before their last meeting. "Usually, at least."

Matthew flinched.

"Cleaning up after your lot making stupid decisions and getting half the platoon blown up – "

"We're not given much choice in the matter," Matthew said abruptly. He had a lump in his throat, and his voice came out all the harsher for it.

It was Thomas's turn to flinch. "Yeah," he said, "well." He lowered his eyes. "'S not right, is all," he muttered, and his hands fidgeted.

"We're in agreement there."

"Sorry."

"All forgiven."

Slowly Thomas drew his eyes back up again, lingering—is he looking, Matthew thought, or is he _looking;_ after months he still had not forgotten their last encounter, how it had begun and how it had ended. "Looks like they recognised you for following orders, at least," he said. There was something snide about it at the same time as the words were cautious. "First lieutenant _Crawley._ "

As though there were something inherently interesting, or perhaps contradictory, about the phrase.

"They recognised me for being in the right place at the right time," returned Matthew, uncomfortable.

"What happened to the one before you?"

"Nothing quick, I'm afraid, I – " Matthew looked away; he swallowed. "I."

"Sorry," Thomas said again, quickly, at the very least he understood his faux-pas, "'m sorry; I just don't – I don't know how to talk like – "

So they were both tongue-tied.

Thomas, in an uncharacteristic display of impropriety, set one elbow upon the bar and rested his face upon his palm. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, blinking hard and fast. "I'm _sorry,_ " he said again, "it's just- if- if I talk about it the right way it's – I _can't_ talk about it the right way, only I can't talk about anything else without bloody thinking about it, and – I just wish I could fucking _forget about it for once_ , but I _can't_ – "

"I know the feeling," said Matthew slowly. On impulse he reached for Thomas's hand beneath the bar table, and his grasp was accepted; his grip was so firm as to be painful.

And then he let go, sniffling, eyes shiny, but thankfully no tears had come of the display. He rubbed at one eye with the back of his wrist and sat up straight, squaring his shoulders. "Some things get you closer than others, though," he mumbled, with a derisive look toward his quarter-full glass; Matthew wasn't certain of what he was implying until… "To forgetting," and his eyes flickered toward the door, then back to Matthew's own, searching.

 _He's given you an out,_ Matthew thought to himself, _it would be all too easy to do the right thing, would it not be?_

But the _right_ thing was not always the most appealing choice, and now was no exception.

Thomas was still staring at him.

Matthew downed the rest of his drink. "I'm staying in an hotel," he said lightly. It was, he thought, no use beating around the bush. "We're not very far."

Thomas nodded. "Better than mine, I'd bet..."

"Likely," Matthew quipped, waving over the barkeep.

And that was that.


	7. Chapter 7

The room was dingy and musty, for being an officer's set up, but the bed was comfortable, in fact, and the drapes were on the rod and the door shut all the way and locked, too, so it was all they needed, really.

And lying underneath him on the bed, even in these circumstances, Thomas almost felt like it was all he'd _ever_ need. The idea was ridiculous, of course. That he could ever be content with a man like this, satisfied with this setting, whatever, but the spirit of it was that he liked looking up into Matthew's blue eyes and he liked him positioned in this way, where he was over and around him all at once. It felt like protection.

They just had to decide what it was they were going to actually do.

"...but you can have me," Thomas breathed, parting his legs, reaching to set a hand upon Matthew's hip. "If you want."

"Don't I already?"

"No, I mean you – "

_Don't I already?_

Thomas swallowed; he turned his head, stared at Matthew's hand beside him, palm flat on the bed. "You can _have_ me," he murmured.

_Don't I already._

He'd only been bloody _joking,_ but–

Matthew didn't even take a full moment to understand.

"Thomas," he said gently.

"Yes?" Thomas returned, sweetly; he stroked at his hip and opened his eyes _just_ wide enough…

"I think that's rather far."

Wanted his wife to be the first thing he stuck it in, probably.

"Most men like it better," Thomas hinted. Not the best method of seducing a bloke, not by far, but _maybe…_

"All the more reason not to," he returned.

Thomas wondered if he knew just how much he'd given away, saying that.

_Afraid I'll ruin you for your wedding night?_ he thought, but he wouldn't say it. Not to him. 

He's said it before, or things like it, but with different kinds of people… people who weren't nearly so nice and considering as Mr Crawley had turned out to be, people who had him once (and in exactly that way, because normally he _did_ choose the best method of seducing-a-bloke) and then ditched him when they found somebody else: somebody meeker, smaller, blonder, younger, what have you. Just to leave him wondering if they were _really_ that much better at it than he was.

Usually he'd decided no, it was only they fit the picture better… it was what you were meant to do, when you got older. You stopped being the pretty one who only had to crook his finger ( _if_ that) and ended up chasing after young chaps who'd be better off seeking their own age, because nobody wanted you anymore. Over and over, that's how it worked. He'd seen it.

It put a bad taste in his mouth.

He'd been the young one they turned to, once, though never _blond._ He hadn't been last season. Probably he wouldn't ever be again, after all this shit, because he already felt like he'd aged years upon years since landing on the continent, and deep down he suspected there'd never be a way to get those back.

But he was still pretty and he was still small _enough,_ if nowhere close to hairless, and this seemed to be just fine for Matthew, so...

"Could do something like it, then," Thomas said, still flirting, still thoughtful; he knew what he was good at, and he was going to rely on it all. "I've got legs, haven't I."

Matthew's lips parted and he took in a breath and Thomas lived for the sound of his exhale, for knowing he'd done something to him, and no matter where they went from here, no matter what happened— if he decided that in fact he was afraid _all_ of this was gonna ruin him for his wedding night and ran off screaming— he had still affected him.

And in such a particular way.

"It's nice," he added, "you'll like it, I think."

"Do you?"

Thomas nodded. "I know what to do," he told Matthew. "Only we'll need…"

They ended up using face cream, funnily enough. 

And Matthew _did_ like it, Thomas was sure of it—he was breathing heavy, his mouth wet against Thomas's shoulder, making the sweetest little noises as Thomas held himself just in place, letting him figure it out…

Figure out what felt nice, what he liked best, and he kept pressing kisses to his back and he even murmured something, at one point, though Thomas didn't know what.

He was behaving like a _lover._

Addicting. Intoxicating. That was what it was. Thomas was losing himself in it, too; he could feel it happening even though he wasn't getting as much, it was just the friction, between his thighs but rubbing back and forth against him, too, and things were slick and perfect and he was _close_ but not really _there,_ yet. Not yet.

Matthew reached around and took him in hand, though, and the way he _touched_ him: long strokes, fervent, not taking his time but not at all careless, neither, just natural and intentional and _this must be how he touches himself,_ Thomas thought, _this must be what he likes,_ and—

They came at the same time. Sooner than he would have guessed. So soon it would have been embarrassing if it hadn't been simultaneously, if they weren't exactly together.

When Thomas rolled over Matthew didn't blanche, didn't turn away, there was no disgusted turn in his lip or furrow of his brow: he was smiling.

Smiling at Thomas.

Smiling at his former servant, with whom he'd just gone to bed—quickly and probably unthinkingly, just from a single chance meeting.

"Thank you," he said, and Thomas was about to be offended, he shouldn't have spoken as if it were some kind of _service,_ he'd _wanted_ to do it, but then Matthew set his hand upon his cheek and moved in to kiss him…

Their lips were both chapped; their chins and cheeks were both stubbled. Matthew tasted of watered-down brandy and Thomas was sure he himself tasted of cut cigarettes, nothing about it, if you thought about it in detail, should have been pleasant, but it _was._ It was touch, it was connection, it was understanding, it was all those things and it was a very good kiss, too, with how Matthew caught the inside of his lip with his teeth, with the way he used his tongue so delicately…

Maybe _thank you_ meant something different, to him.


End file.
